Flipped
by AlethyaDevan
Summary: [Revised!]What begins as a typical summer is warped as Ginny’s relationship with Harry deepens and a command given by Dumbledore casts them into a vicious cycle of emotions.
1. Sycamore

**Flipped **by Alethya Devan  
  
**Summary:** What begins as a typical summer is warped as Ginny's relationship with Harry deepens and a command given by Dumbledore casts them into a vicious cycle of emotions.  
  
**Disclaimer** for all chapters: I don't own Harry Potter, and the first chapter is loosely based on the novel Flipped by Wendelin van Draanen. Information about characters are from the five HP books as well as the wonderful Harry Potter Lexicon and various JKR interviews.

:::

**Chapter 1: _Sycamore_**  
  
_Ginny's P.O.V._  
  
His eyes have always mesmerized me. Even when I was little and mom showed me the baby pictures they had of Harry James Potter in the books about He-who-must-not-be-named, I was always lured by the bright green eyes.  
  
And then in first year, in the Chamber of Secrets. Even with the dead basilisk and Harry's arm being poisoned and all, I couldn't help but feel - deep in my heart - that we had almost kissed. I was so close to him, I swear, if I had just turned my lips up ...  
  
I'm not sure what made me chase after that kiss, even after all these years. I've always wondered what a kiss would feel like. Probably something only science could relate to the kind of kisses mom gives me before bed, but something of radically different species.  
  
Like how a horse is related to a hippopotamus.  
  
Looking back now, I think it was probably those gorgeous green eyes.  
  
I made up my mind to forget about him during the TriWizard tournament. I still blushed when the opportunity came for me to attend the Yule Ball with Harry instead of with Neville, but I didn't have the heart to turn Neville down after he was rejected by Hermione Granger. And besides - Harry managed to find himself a pretty date anyway.  
  
It wasn't so much as if I had got over him. I just gave up.  
  
I never kissed Michael Corner. Not once. I liked him alright, but my mind was elsewhere. I wanted my first kiss to be special, and I knew that if I kissed Michael Corner it wouldn't give me that feeling of fireworks and stars dancing behind my eyelids that I read once, long ago, in a book.  
  
I was always a hopeless romantic.  
  
And for once, I could look right into Harry's emerald green eyes. His eyes that varied in shades from dark forest green to something brighter. And if I didn't control myself, I swear I could have fallen in love with him all over again.  
  
"Ginny, I still don't believe you said Dean was your boyfriend."  
  
I shrugged at Elana Fawcett, a neighbourhood friend at Ottery St. Catchpole.  
  
"Hey, when it comes to Ron, you need to shut him up."  
  
"But in front of Harry?" she whispered at me. I glared at her. "Well? What did Harry do?"  
  
"Nothing," I snapped, rolling my eyes. Elana backed off. It was a touchy topic, and she knew it, even if we were pouring over our soap-opera like lives.  
  
"Oh. My. Good. God" Elana muttered under her breath. I looked up from where we were sitting on the living room couch.  
  
"What?" I turned to look at Elana, and saw she was staring fixedly at something. I followed her line of sight, and couldn't help but swallow involuntarily.  
  
Harry was standing in kitchen filling up a cup, with relatively simple clothing on – khaki shorts and an old t-shirt. And yet, somehow, he commanded the attention of all female beings in the vicinity. My mouth fell slightly open.  
  
"Is that Harry Potter?" Elana breathed, turning to me.  
  
"Yeah," I said. I grinned wickedly at her. "And here I was thinking you were falling for Dean Thomas."  
  
"Don't be stupid," Elana snapped back at me. "You know I'm going for Dean, I've just never noticed Harry Potter like that before."  
  
"Mhmm," I muttered. Never noticed Harry Potter. Wish I could have that luxury.  
  
"Ginny! I swear, one of these days, I am going to feed you to the squid," she exclaimed. "Besides, it was you who couldn't get over the wonderful Mr. Potter at first."  
  
"I'm over him now," I protested.  
  
Elana made a non-committal sound in reply, sighing and launching into another tale of her angsty exchanges with Dean Thomas. I tied my hair back, crossing my legs, and looked over at the kitchen.  
  
Harry was just going outside with three cups in hand, and as he glanced at me, I couldn't help but feel the slightly quickened pace of my heart as his emerald eyes locked onto mine for a second.  
  
:::

"Dad!" I shrieked, feeling much like a two-year old as I pummelled into him.  
  
"Gin," he said, greeting, his tired face breaking into a smile. "You go tell your mother the wards have been checked tonight so she doesn't have to go out later."  
  
"Oh, that's good," Mum said from the kitchen. "News on Grimmauld Place?" Her voice was low as she stirred the cream sauce on the stove.  
  
"We won't be going back there any time soon. Harry's going to attract attention, and the Ministry has their eyes going everywhere. It's ballistic," Dad replied, giving my shoulder a squeeze as he bent over to kiss mum before turning back to me.  
  
"You go set the table now, Gin, and put another plate out – Tonks'll be coming in after her shift on the wards."  
  
I nodded, obedient in these matters, as Mum and Dad went to their room, heads bent together, voices low. I took the cream sauce from where Mum had left it on the hall table, letting out a dramatic sigh.  
  
"Why," I said to the empty kitchen, "is it that the pretty Weasley girls always have to do the cooking?"  
  
"Well," came a deep voice, with a slight hint of laughter, "perhaps the men are too busy staring?"  
  
My breath caught as I turned around and met dark emerald eyes.  
  
"Harry!" I grinned, feeling a surge of audacity. I thrust the cream sauce at him enthusiastically, motioning him over to the stove.  
  
"Go on then, Sir Lancelot, show me your chivalrous charms."  
  
He grinned. His trademark, lopsided, ever-charming grin.  
  
I could literally feel all the females in the kitchen turn towards him like a magnet.  
  
Of course, there was only me.  
  
My heart flipped.  
  
"As you wish, Lady Guinevere," he replied, and took the wooden spoon from me, obediently stirring.  
  
I turned away from him, a goofy smile plastered over my face. I made him smile. ME. I felt like cheering.  
  
It was so rare to see him smile a genuine, unforced smile now, and now I had.  
  
He turned to me for a moment, to glance at why I was staring.  
  
I smiled innocently, reaching past him for the chicken and ham pie, and when he smiled back again, I had to brace myself to keep from putting my elbow into something again.  
  
Thank Merlin there wasn't a butter dish around.

:::::

I have always loved to watch my father, Arthur Weasley, tinker around with different objects in the shed behind our home. It's always peaceful to watch his hands - accompanied by a few waves of his wand - mould something looking like complete junk into something - well, magical, I suppose.  
  
I can't explain it.  
  
I suppose my calm doesn't come from the transformation of the objects itself. I have always felt connected to my parents, but between watching my mother cook and watching my father tinker around with muggle artefacts, I always prefer my father.  
  
An entire change washes over him whenever he sits in that old shed, balancing on a teetering stool, light from a lamp in the corner. The stressful days he endures at the Ministry seem to drop from his shoulders the moment he sits down, rolls up his sleeves, and surveys the mess in front of him.  
  
Like a kid at Zonko's. Like an artist.  
  
I finally found that if I sat still, balancing like him on an old stool, he would begin talking. Not necessarily to me, or about what was going on in my life - but what he felt. He told me more than once about what he felt when he made objects out of the scraps littered on his desk.  
  
"What I'm making, Ginny, is more than just a sum of the parts - you take the eckletic plug by itself and you get an eckletic plug. You take the fellytone by itself and it's just a fellytone. But you put it together and you get...magic."  
  
I never really understood what he meant. No, not about the names of the muggle artifacts. I knew he had those wrong...I mean about the magic part. I didn't understand, until one day on the sycamore tree.  
  
A little ways off the side of my house, past the Quidditch paddock and the orchard, is an area that any Malfoy would call a junkyard with its overgrown weeds. To me - it's breathtaking beauty and majestic magnificence.  
  
There is a sycamore tree, perched on the vacant lot, bent and twisted and spectacular in its uniqueness. Every time I go there - well, I could never help but run my fingers over the bark and feel my heart tighten.  
  
My mother says it must have been damaged as a sapling to have it so twisted, complete with nests and even a built-in slide for humans. No one in my family really goes down there.  
  
Have I mentioned it is on muggle property? Sure, my mother has reminded me countless times to stay out, but I think she gave up when she finally understood how attached I was to the tree. Dad even went as far as to put up the wards so it went around my tree.  
  
It was a not-so-normal day during the summer that I finally felt the magic my father was talking about. Not wand magic.... something radically different.  
  
On that magic day, I had just gotten to the base of the tree and had just begun climbing, when I heard a sudden rustling of branches above, and the sound of breaking twigs. I looked up, and saw a broomstick, wedged firmly in the leaves.  
  
I sighed, knowing it was probably either Fred or George's. They had saved up enough money with the joke shop to get new broomsticks - the newest branch of the Nimbus's. They had probably forgotten about the anti- theft feature included in the broom.  
  
It was a long ways up, but it was worth a shot. I didn't mind climbing - after all that was what I was about to do anyway - and it would look slightly strange if someone used a Summoning Charm. Imagine being a muggle and seeing a broomstick fire itself out of a tree.  
  
I was halfway up when I heard someone muttering something from the base of the tree somewhere. And when I looked down, I saw Harry. Harry Potter, saviour of the wizarding world, hanging on for dear life to a lower branch, trying to find a foothold. I couldn't help but laugh, but I bit my lip quickly, scared of his reaction. Lately he had been so distant I was afraid of what would happen if I laughed.  
  
He looked up, and again my heart quickened as his bright green eyes, sprinkled with gold from the sun slanting through them, looked up at me. Stupid teenage hormones. I balanced precariously and smoothed my green shirt nervously.  
  
"Ginny! What are y'doing up there?"  
  
"Climbing," I said back, as absently as possible.  
  
He opened his mouth to reply but just as he did, his hands slipped, and he was back on the ground in a heap. I laughed again, and then suddenly realized what I was doing and coughed.  
  
"Are you okay?" I heard a muttered string of curses, and grinned despite myself.  
  
"Yeah," he said, and looked up wincing slightly as he rubbed his elbow. "What are you grinning at?"  
  
"Oh, nothing," I said, not sure what was the correct response. "Just - well...."  
  
Harry peered back up at me, and suddenly he grinned his trademark lopsided grin. I caught my breath, realizing with a pang how rare it was that he smiled like that.  
  
"Yeah, I know," he said. "How do you get up there?"  
  
"I usually use the other side. There's a lower branch. It's really thick, actually. Can't miss it."  
  
"Thanks," he said, sheepishly.  
  
I sat patiently on the branch, rubbing at a streak of dirt on my shirts, hoping secretly (even if I didn't admit it to myself) that he would talk to me for a while.  
  
Lately he hadn't talked to anyone but Remus Lupin, and while Ron and Hermione respected that he needed his space after his godfather's death, I knew they wanted him to open up. And although I highly doubted it then, I had a bit of hope that he might talk to me.  
  
I could hear Harry below me, breathing slightly laboured, and when his head appeared next to me, I stifled a laugh at the look of intense concentration on his face.  
  
"Hey," he said, and pulled himself up on the branch across from me, leaning against the gnarled trunk and freeing one hand to lift up the bottom of his shirt, wiping the slight sheen of sweat on his face.  
  
I turned away, determined not to blush.  
  
"Is it Fred's, or is it George's?" I asked, without noticing that I hadn't bothered to say hi.  
  
"What?"  
  
"You know, the broomstick."  
  
"Oh, yeah. It's Fred's, but it was my fault it got up there."  
  
"Really?" oh really smooth, Ginny, really smooth.  
  
"Yeah - he said I could try out his new broom. Almost killed me. Got to ask Dumbledore about my broom when I get the chance."  
  
"Did he do that on purpose?" I asked him, choking back my laughter.  
  
"Oh, I don't know. We got a great laugh out of it though." He said. I smiled.  
  
His face was turned away as he said this, but he suddenly turned back to me and fixed me with an intense gaze, his green eyes boring into mine. I instantly bit my lip and turned away on instinct. I felt my heart quicken - he seemed to be searching my soul.  
  
There was a long, awkward silence.  
  
"Why aren't you laughing, Gin? Why does no one laugh when I'm around anymore?"  
  
"What?" I blurted, half surprised by his question, half shocked that he had called me by my nickname.  
  
"Why don't you guys laugh when I'm around?"  
  
I stared at him for a moment, letting the question swirl around in my head, probing for an answer.  
  
"We do! I do! I - "  
  
"You don't laugh. I saw you. You tried not to laugh. I'm not stupid. I notice these things too. I hate it when you don't act normal around me - I hate it when you act like I'm just a piece of glass, and - "  
  
"We laugh around you! You just said you all had a great laugh about the broom - "  
  
"We didn't," he said quietly. He looked away. "I would've loved it if they had laughed. They just stood around like it was a funeral. I was being sarcastic when I said we had a great laugh."  
  
"Oh."  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"Well great job of being sarcastic, congratulations," I said, sarcastically.  
  
Oh Bollocks, I thought to myself, groaning inwardly. I wanted to smack myself, but instead bit my lip, hard.  
  
There was another moment of awkward silence, when he wouldn't meet my eyes, and I wouldn't meet his. My thoughts skipped around my head, and I couldn't pinpoint anything.  
  
"Harry, I'm sorry, I didn't mean it like that - it just came out, and - well, I mean - " I floundered around, trying to apologize properly.  
  
I saw his Adam's apple bob in his throat. He ran his hands through his hair, and I itched to feel what it was like.  
  
And then, without warning, he turned to me, and looked at me again with his breathtaking green eyes, and, reaching back, dropped down from my view.  
  
I stifled a gasp, and leant over slightly, watching as he landed on a branch a few feet below and then jumped the last distance to the ground, landing in a crouch. I hesitated before dropping down in the same method, in front of him.  
  
"Harry, I - it's not that, it's just - " I swallowed, suddenly forgetting what I was supposed to say. "You've been so distant to me - to us. I'm scared you'll take laughing incorrectly...." I trailed off, suddenly realizing how judging I sounded, how stupid.  
  
At the same time, I knew I was right.  
  
He didn't look up at me. Instead, he stood up slowly, and put his hands in his pockets, head down, as if contemplating what to do, a flop of black hair hanging over his eyes.  
  
Without another word, he walked past me and into the row of orchard trees.  
  
For a while I just stood there, in the dappled sunlight, confused and shattered, thinking and getting mad at myself for not chewing my words before speaking.  
  
The stupidest part was that I couldn't remember why I made that sarcastic remark to him.  
  
I didn't understand why he didn't respond.  
  
I think it confused me more that he had not said anything in response to my sarcastic remark than it would have if he had just slapped me.  
  
I had felt my heart contract when he just walked past me, and so much of me wanted to go to him and throw my arms around him. But I couldn't. I felt like that would be a violation of some sort.  
  
I turned and began climbing, my hands and feet moving without me actually thinking - the branches were all familiar to my touch. I didn't notice the broom was that far up - until I got to a point where my head was sticking above the branches.  
  
I gasped as I looked around me, the ground a dizzying ways away. I grasped the broom tightly, and, instead of looking down, looked out across the muggle rooftops, trying to calm my heart.  
  
Eventually, the thrill and fear of being so high up left me, and I could suddenly feel the sunlight on my face, and the smell of leaves and something that one could only identify as sycamore and sunshine flood my nostrils.  
  
I stayed up there until the sun began to set, turning the sky into purples and pinks and gold.  
  
I brought the broomstick back down; glad I had worn muggle jeans instead of my sundress, and reluctantly let go of the bark. Whenever I climbed, I felt as if I were leaving my worries on the ground.  
  
As I looked at the lengthening shadows, catching my breath, I realized something. It was finally then that I saw what my father meant by the whole being more than just a sum of the parts.  
  
The whole idea moved from my head to my heart, and I knew. The view from my tree was more than clouds and wind and colours combined. It was something indescribable.  
  
It was humble and majestic at the same time.  
  
It was magic.  
  
:::::::::::::  
  
Sometimes I wonder what would happen if I did one thing differently in a day.  
  
So many things would change.  
  
Then again, after a while, you look back at where you took a different fork on the road and you think it wasn't so bad after all.  
  
You can blame Fred and George for almost anything. That's part of what I love so much about them. Pair of punchbaggys, they are.  
  
I was on the landing outside my room, a pair of extendable ears on their way back to Fred and George, when I heard Harry's muffled voice in the kitchen below.  
  
I had a pair of extendable ears.  
  
Conversation downstairs.  
  
Blame Fred and George.  
  
It took a bit of hesitation, but in the end I went back into my room, and in a minute was eavesdropping. In a very professional manner, of course.  
  
It wasn't long before I realized I should have never told Hermione about what had happened last night at the sycamore. I had forgotten how Hermione was a direct link to adults and all things sophisticated.  
  
"Harry," said Professor Lupin...Remus' voice, "Who is this Ginny Weasley?"  
  
There was a moment of hesitation.  
  
"Ginny? What about Ginny?" Harry said, hesitant.  
  
"Tell me about her"  
  
"But you know about her! You see her all the time!"  
  
"No, Harry, YOU tell ME about HER"  
  
"What about her?"  
  
I raised my eyebrow at their stubbornness, slightly amused.  
  
"Well, you know...the basics...what does she look like, the lot," Lupin said casually.  
  
"WHY?"  
  
"Honestly, Harry! Can't you give me this one answer?"  
  
I snorted. Professor Lupin was sounding a heck of a lot like Hermione.  
  
"Why do you want to know that badly? You never tell ME anything!"  
  
"Harry, I have REASONS," Lupin snapped, and I winced. It sounded rehearsed, Harry's question, Lupin's answer. As if they had been through the same thing over and over again.  
  
"Yes, and I'm sure those reasons...they're all legitimate enough to keep me from knowing what the bloody heck is going on half the time until AFTER I've gotten mauled by Voldemort again!"  
  
"Don't you DARE talk like that!"  
  
Even from a floor above them, I could sense the tension, the anger, the hurt, and the one word hanging between them, the one event that was creating a rift.  
  
There was a long moment of silence.  
  
"I'm sorry," Remus muttered.  
  
I could hear Harry exhaling loudly.  
  
"Ginny is Ginny. Her name is Ginny Weasley, Ron Weasley's bloody sister, she goes up to my shoulder in height, red hair, brown eyes. Nothing special. Okay?"  
  
My heart thudded painfully.  
  
I vaguely noted Lupin's farewell to Harry. The stored up angst, the bitterness from the past five years bubbled into my veins in an uncontrollable, unreasonable rage.  
  
I was already down at the bottom of the staircase, watching, numb, as Harry casually took a deep drink of water from his cup, sauntering over to the kitchen sink.  
  
"Thanks, Harry." The sarcasm in my voice surprised me.  
  
He turned slowly to face me. From my years of Harry-reading, I could tell he was surprised, afraid.  
  
"S'nice to know how well appreciated I am in your world," I spat, feeling the blood rush to my face, my hair falling out of my ponytail.  
  
He just gawked at me. Stupid guy.  
  
"Is that all I am to you, then? Red hair, Ron's bloody little sister, nothing special?" I said acidly.  
  
He was outright staring now, as if I were some horrid veela who had sprouted wings and talons.  
  
Well a nice bloody hello to him. I felt the anger flare up in me, the hurt in my chest beginning to reach past my throat.  
  
"Thank you, Harry, for your wonderful, oh-so-bloody-touching flattery." I choked out, tears blurring my vision.  
  
"Ginny..." He started, tugging a hand through his hair, "what are you talking about?"  
  
"Who do you think you are, Harry? Who do you think I am? Am I someone so bloody ordinary that you can just write up who I am in one sentence??"  
  
"But..."  
  
"Don't treat me like I'm a block of wood, Harry. Just because you're feeling like crap and your bloody godfather is dead doesn't mean you can go around making my family feel bad, did you know that? You can't just bloody let yourself go to pieces and drag everyone down with you just because one bloody person is dead!"  
  
How incredibly brilliant. I clapped a hand over my mouth, effectively stopping the uncontrollable flow of words.  
  
Oh Bollocks, I thought bitterly. What a screw up.  
  
"Sirius Black was not just another bloody person," He whispered, voice cracking. "He was my godfather."  
  
/I know/, I wanted to yell, /I'm sorry.../  
  
He looked away, his shoulders tense, his steps rigid, measured. His silence stabbed at me.  
  
He set the cup down gently in the sink.  
  
My mind whirled, blood pounding in my temples.  
  
He slammed the door behind him, the sound reverberating through the kitchen.

::::::

Please, please excuse me while I go die a thousand deaths  
  
Bloody hell.  
  
Surely I could have kept my mouth shut? I should have just kept my big mouth shut and gone quietly to my room.  
  
Would've been better to cry by myself. It wouldn't be the first time I had been hurt emotionally, I could have survived it.  
  
But Harry.  
  
What kind of person was I, to go and insult his godfather like that?  
  
It was a cheap shot and I knew it. It was dirty to bring up a topic that Harry had never mentioned once this summer and throw it into an argument.  
  
But it hurt. It hurt to be thought of as nothing special to him when I had worn my heart on my sleeve, my face, for five years and the world knew I cared for him.  
  
Damn Harry for his charm and his bloody charisma.  
  
I bit my lip and turned my forehead against the wall to keep from crying out.  
  
No, Sirius wasn't just another bloody person. But neither am I.  
  
"Ginevra Weasley, will you PLEASE stop standing there and HELP??"  
  
I mentally shook myself, scowling at Mum's deliberate use of my horrid first name, and moved from where I had been standing staring at the door that Harry had just slammed less than two minutes ago. My dear mum Molly Weasley looked at me strangely.  
  
"You ARE alright, are you? Come now, get these bags off my arms and help me sort out those groceries. Wonderful day at the market today, fresh produce at SUCH a deal..."  
  
From years of practice, I tuned out Mum's never-ceasing talk and mulled unhappily over the argument I just had with Harry, and I couldn't help but worry if he was alright. I itched to walk outside and check on him, just to make sure... I knew I was being paranoid; the wards were up and I was sure an auror was probably patrolling the outskirts of Ottery St. Catchpole for any stray Death Eaters, but....  
  
"Ginny, be a dear and go find the three of them for me and... What on earth have you done with the dough?" Mum made an tut-tut noise and flicked her wand at my uneven pasty crusts, and waved me away dismissively as the filling sailed obediently into each pasty and the assembled ones shuffled into the oven.  
  
I turned and walked up the stairs to the second floor, nearly falling over on the landing as I hit Ron running in the opposite direction, Hermione close behind.  
  
"Oh, he's done talking with Lupin then?" Hermione asked, peering around Ron's shoulder at me. I nodded.  
  
"Mum says it's lunch so get downstairs."  
  
"Where's Harry?" Ron asked distractedly, brushing past me and down the stairs.  
  
"I don't know, he went outside earlier...should be back in a bit. He was ..." I stopped short as Ron held up a hand a few steps ahead. Harry was already in the kitchen, pouring juice into a bottle, the back of his legs slightly muddied but safe.  
  
He looked over at Ron and Hermione, his eyes resting on me for a moment, before turning and resuming his task.  
  
He knew we had been talking about him, and the set of his shoulders suggested it.  
  
"Hey, mate," Ron said cheerfully, gripping Harry's shoulder momentarily before passing onto Mum and taking the basket in her hand.  
  
"Picnic, mum?" I asked casually, stepping aside for the line of freshly- baked pasties trooping into the picnic basket.  
  
"Just the four of you today, I'm afraid. I need to run some errands and Fred and George are off in Diagon Alley. Just mind you de-gnome when you're done lunch before going swimming."  
  
"Oh but Mummm..." Ron protested weakly. I had a feeling he was only complaining to fill the awkward tension that was already creeping in as Mum opened the door.  
  
"And don't you try and get out of it, Ron. Ginny I want you to wash those tomatoes before dinner. I'll be back by five."

:::

When mum left, the afternoon spiralled downhill, and the awkwardness was so tangible I could smell it. We walked out to the Quidditch paddock to eat our sandwiches and pasties, lying down or sitting on the slightly yellowed grass.  
  
Ron and Hermione tried to make small talk, and I tried to help, but each time a conversation ensued, it was hard not to feel as if we were leaving Harry out, and each time the conversation broke down.  
  
"Nice day," I remarked, during a particularly long lapse in conversation.  
  
"Bit hot though," Hermione muttered back.  
  
"Hey, what about a round of Quidditch then, later? I can play Keeper and Gin you can do Chaser and Harry, you can be Chaser too...or Seeker...or you can even be Keeper! Or um...a Beater, if you want. And erm...Hermione, you can be another chaser, and we can have a round of Quidditch...perfect day, this!"  
  
Ron was rambling, and he knew it. He stopped, and I glanced sideways at Harry, who was simply sitting and polishing off a pasty. I looked at Ron, who looked at Hermione, who swallowed audibly.  
  
"Harry?" Hermione asked tentatively. "Hello?"  
  
No response.  
  
"Harry, are you alright?"  
  
Silence.  
  
"Harry... are you okay?"  
  
What happened next registered in my memory as being a blur and happening very fast.  
  
Harry was on his feet in a rush, his pasty a heap at his feet, his juice sinking slowly into the parched ground. I winced. His hands were clenched tightly, and his emerald eyes blazed in anger. He glared at Hermione.  
  
"Will you bloody LEAVE ME ALONE? I just need some goddamn time, is that really all that bloody hard to ask of you? One day you all just look at me like I'm GLASS and none of you laugh when things are funny. What is this, a FUNERAL? Is that what it is, then, you all know I'm going to die eventually anyway so you're treating me like a GHOST, is that it?"  
  
Harry was yelling loudly now, and I vaguely wondered if the neighbouring muggles might hear and intervene. Hermione looked horrified, and Ron was watching like me, his mouth open, gaping as Harry continued his tirade.  
  
"And then the moment I want some time alone, you come after me and ask me about what is wrong with me. Do you REALLY need to bloody ask? How would you feel if you were given nightmares for a whole year just so the bloody world could have some time off from my dear friend Voldie, huh? How would you feel if the last person in your family who cared for you died? It hurts, you know that?"  
  
His voice softened to a deadly whisper, his face now inches from Hermione's, leering.  
  
"Well you know what, I don't want your pity, and I don't need your pity, okay? You will never understand me."  
  
A dry sob came choking out of Hermione's throat.  
  
"Oh to HELL with it," I heard Ron mutter. He got to his feet and swung a right cross that would have made Charlie and Bill proud. Harry fell with a thud.  
  
"Damn you, Harry James Potter. Who do you think you are, mate? We aren't bloody trying to give you PITY, we're trying to get you to talk to us, because we're your FRIENDs, or have you forgotten? WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU? You say you aren't sick, you say there isn't a thing wrong with you, but you know what, there IS. You've been killing yourself ever since you arrived, ever since the start of summer. Will you bloody open up?"  
  
I could only gape as I watched Harry pull himself up, rubbing his jaw, and faced Ron, hands clenching into fists.  
  
"Talk to us, Harry," Ron said quietly, hands relaxed at his side.  
  
Something snapped in Harry, and his face turned away, eyes tightly closed. He backed unsteadily away from Ron, stumbling slightly.  
  
"I don't know," he said quietly, "You don't understand, I don't..."  
  
He raised his head then, wildly, eyes raking over Ron holding a sobbing Hermione, briefly over me, with my mouth still hanging open, at the Quidditch paddock around, at the house, and broke into a run towards the orchard, towards my sycamore.  
  
Ron muttered a string of fluent curses that would have impressed Fred and George and earned a lecture from Hermione if the situation had been different.  
  
"Ginny, go after him," He snapped at me.  
  
I didn't argue, slipping off my sandals and running across the Quidditch paddock, feet pounding the well-known path to my sycamore.  
  
I prayed he would still be there.

::::  
  
He was on all fours, throwing up his lunch, when I finally reached my tree, out of breath, panting.  
  
I stood for a moment, steadying myself, before I approached and knelt beside him.  
  
Tentatively, I reached out and gently rubbed my palm across his tense back, trying to comfort him. I felt him flinch for a moment before he relaxed, his breathing ragged, occasionally coughing or sniffing.  
  
I rummaged in my pocket for a napkin, handing it to him wordlessly, my right hand continuing its comforting circles on his lower back. I dimly noted the protruding bones from his spine, the seeping warmth, and I shivered despite the heat.  
  
I stood up after his breathing steadied, pulling him with me. I led him to a low branch on my sycamore and we sat. For once, the silence between us held little tension, and I did not hesitate in continuing to rub his back as he sat slouched, looking exhausted, his black hair flopping over his scar, sticking up in it's adoring way.  
  
It was a long time before he spoke.  
  
"Thanks, Gin," he muttered, and my heart soared at the use of my nickname. I smiled at him simply, swinging my foot.  
  
"Ginny, I..." he hesitated, and I glanced sideways at him, registering his suddenly tensed shoulders and furrowed brow. "I'm sorry," he breathed at last. I nodded.  
  
"I know,"  
  
There was a long pause.  
  
"Why are you here?" He asked, his voice barely above a whisper. "Why aren't you back in the paddock hating me?"  
  
I prayed desperately for the right words to say, biting my lip as I let my fingers trail down his arm and take hold of his hand, feeling his calloused fingers curve around mine. My heart pounded, and the blood rushed through my head.  
  
"Harry," I said softly, turning to face him, "I would ...I could never hate you. I know you, Harry. I can't hate you."  
  
"Why?" He retorted, his hand not letting go of mine.  
  
/Because I love you/, I wanted to tell him, /and I can't stop/. But I couldn't answer him like that, I couldn't tell him that, so I stayed silent, my mind whirling.  
  
"Who am I, Ginny?" He said, his voice cracking. He turned towards me suddenly, and his emerald eyes, dark, tortured, locked with mine, and I could feel my pulse race erratically.  
  
"You...you're Harry Potter,"  
  
"Yes," He said, and let out a bitter, fake laugh. "I'm Harry Potter. The bloody boy-who-lived."  
  
I couldn't think of a word.  
  
"Tell me, Ginny," He said suddenly, his hand tightening almost painfully around mine, "Why did you like me before? What did you see in me that...that made you like me?"  
  
/That's not fair/, I wanted to yell. /That's not FAIR!/  
  
An incoherent noise escaped my throat.  
  
"Please tell me," he said, his voice cracking. His gaze was too intense, and I broke it, focusing on the branch we were perched on.  
  
"Harry, I..." I let out a breath. "I was ten years old. On platform 9 and ¾. And then..."  
  
I bit my lip, frustrated. This was getting nowhere.  
  
"The first time I liked you...it was because of you, because you were humble and polite and..." I looked down at our intertwined hands before swallowing and meeting his gaze, "and because your green eyes show your emotions, because... you're so charismatic, because you're alone, and yet you always help others, because..."  
  
"And you expect me to help others now, don't you." He said softly, bitterly.  
  
"No...no! You do because..."  
  
"Because I'm the bloody boy-who-lived, that's why, because I'm HARRY POTTER," He retorted, letting go of my hands and standing abruptly. "Would you have even loved me, if I wasn't Harry Potter?"  
  
The bitterness in his voice surprised me, his words biting into my flesh.  
  
"No, that's NOT why..." I stood up in a rush, grabbing his arms and forcing him to face me.  
  
"Harry, I don't love the side of you that has all the fame. I don't love the Quidditch side of you, or the brave, valiant side of you. I admire you for being brave, being valiant, for being unselfish.... but I..." I met his gaze now, fully, feeling the courage pour forth into my mind. "I love the boy who was locked up in his broom closet, the boy who I want to comfort, because...because, Harry. I don't know why I love you. I can't explain it. I just do. Because of your charisma. Because of YOU. And it runs much deeper than your green eyes...I..."  
  
I stopped short then, and stepped back, letting my arms fall to my sides. I felt the beginnings of a blush, and I fought to keep it down, feeling the blood travel up into my face even as my mind protested.  
  
I felt drained.  
  
"Harry...if you want to talk, later, after dinner...you know where to find me," I said, softly.  
  
I took another step back, hesitating. I looked at him then, taking in his unfathomable expression, the intensity of his gaze.  
  
I couldn't stop myself.  
  
I took two steps up to him, and slid my arms around his neck, drawing him into an embrace. My heart thudded impatiently in my chest, pounding, as I felt his arms encircle my waist, tentatively, and I relaxed into his chest, feeling his chin rest on the top of my head, the puzzle pieces falling into place.  
  
"GINNY MOLLY WEASLEY, WHAT HAPPENED TO THE TOMATOES?" Was it five o'clock already? I tried to mold myself deeper into the embrace, feeling the warmth that was so...Harry seep into my skin.  
  
"GINNY WEASLEY YOU COME HERE AND WASH THEM NOW!"  
  
Sod mum and the ruddy tomatoes. I felt Harry loosen his arms, and I reluctantly reciprocated his actions, feeling rather bereft.  
  
I felt a surge of audacity, and I turned my head, brushing my lips against his cheek, stumbling back a step. My eyes were still trained on his emerald ones, and for once I could hardly read his expression.  
  
Nervously, I tucked an escaping strand of my hair behind my ear, and fled.  
  
I ran back to the Burrow, heart and mind racing. It wasn't until I was inside the kitchen, flopped in a chair, with my dear mum looking at me like I had gone berserk, that what I had told him, what had happened at my sycamore, really came crashing into my mind.

:::


	2. Circles

**Flipped** by Alethya Devan  
  
_Chapter 1_ – Thanks for everyone who reviewed, you guys are GREAT! muah  
Note: Ginny's full name IS Ginevra Molly Weasley – if in doubt, refer to the Harry Potter Lexicon and the past JKR interviews. So all those out there who used Virginia as the first name... it's Ginevra!  
  
**Chapter 2: _Circles_**  
  
:::  
  
I could barely take a step out of my room before dinner.  
  
I couldn't breathe the moment I stepped into the kitchen and saw him there, sitting, his hair adorably sticking up in a cowlick at the back, the end of his lightning bolt scar peeking from behind a loose fringe of black hair.  
  
He didn't see me at first.  
  
I paused momentarily at the bottom of the staircase, taking in my mother at her usual spot, my father at his, Fred and George sitting together, and the empty seat resting between Harry and Hermione.  
  
I felt a pang of sympathy for Harry, a rush of love for his hunched, tense posture as he kept his eyes downcast on his empty plate, not responding to the various conversations around him.  
  
It was Dad who saw me first, his mouth splitting into the grin that I always thought was only for me.  
  
"There you are, Ginny! We've been waiting for you!"  
  
"Blimey, Ginny...."  
  
"...s'bout time you got down here..."  
  
"about to starve, we are!"  
  
I smiled at Dad, glared at Fred and George who had already turned their attention to the steak and kidney pie in front of them, and finally rested my eyes on Harry.  
  
My breath caught halfway down to my lungs.  
  
That expression again, the one I couldn't read, was printed on his face, his emerald eyes locking with mine. I prayed I wouldn't trip over my feet as I slid into the empty seat next to him, absentmindedly turning to greet Ron and Hermione.  
  
I still hadn't said I word to Harry, and he sure hadn't tried to acknowledge my presence.  
  
We didn't speak to each other during dinner, actually.  
  
I occasionally spooned food onto his plate for him, and he did the same for me, and while I always felt the familiar electric current travel up my arm when he brushed against me, he never bothered to speak.  
  
It only heightened my already sensitive nerves. I registered his every movement, the way he ate, how he held his fork and knife, the slight slurping noise he made when eating his stew. I hoped, with all my heart, that the invitation I had made earlier would be accepted.  
  
That maybe he would come and talk with me.  
  
I prayed that he would.

:::::::

After dinner, I went immediately up to my room after helping Mum check on her dishwashing charms and wipe down the table.  
  
I read for a while, my mind dragging slowly through Hogwarts, a History, which I had snatched from its usual spot on Hermione's bedside table. I felt drained.  
  
I fell asleep almost instantaneously, my mind filled with daydreams of the various hidden niches in Hogwarts that could serve as a potential Harry- snogging place.  
  
When I woke again, Hermione was already asleep in her bed, her classic occasional snore coming from her side of the room. I sighed, swinging my legs off the side of my bed. I was reaching behind me for my jumper when I sensed movement and looked at the doorway.  
  
Harry.  
  
His hand was still on the doorknob, and although I couldn't see his face, I knew from his stance that he was about to flee any moment.  
  
I grabbed my jumper and ran to the door.  
  
My mind was still groggy from sleep as I pulled the door shut behind me, grabbing his arm and leading him down the staircase, thanking the stars that my room was only on the third floor and not any higher.  
  
The living room was dark, a heavy blanket of silence and night muffling the glowing embers in the fireplace. I let go of Harry's arm and knelt in front of the dying fire, blowing lightly on it and feeling my mind shake the cobwebs off as the fire grew slowly.  
  
When the fire was crackling at its usual enthusiasm, I turned, feeling my pulse pick up immediately as I looked up.  
  
It never failed, my reaction to him.  
  
I moved a little farther back from the fire and turned so I was facing him, pooling my jumper into my lap.  
  
He didn't look at me, staring into the fire, his right hand picking absently at a loose thread on the knee of his pajama pants, his back leaning against the base of the couch.  
  
His profile was not alien to me in that I had never seen it, but it was something new, seeing him in firelight. I felt like a sponge, my eyes absorbing his messy hair, his nose, his lips, his eyelashes on his cheeks as he blinked.  
  
We didn't move for a long time.  
  
When he did speak, his voice cut through the silence like a cleaver.  
  
"If I tell you something, will you promise never to tell anyone?"  
  
My breath caught, but I did not hesitate.  
  
"Yes," I said, my voice hoarse.  
  
He turned his head to face me for a moment, meeting my eyes as if trying to assess my honesty.  
  
"I haven't even told Ron and Hermione yet." He snorted, wiping a thumb along his jawline. "I haven't even told my best friends yet."  
  
I could sense his doubt, his bitterness.  
  
"Harry," I said, as softly as I could, "they still want to be your best friend. They still love you."  
  
"How can they?" he ground out, his teeth clenched. "I don't even understand how you could still stand there at that tree this afternoon and say you loved me when you saw what I did to Hermione."  
  
"No," I protested, my words coming out in a rush, stung by his disbelief. "That wasn't you, I know you, I..."  
  
"No one knows me," he muttered, "you don't understand, Ginny, that WAS me. You don't know who I am, I don't know who I am, all I know is I'm...."  
  
He turned his face away suddenly, so even his profile was hidden from me.  
  
"Go away, Ginny," he said, his voice sounding strangled.  
  
I froze.  
  
"Go away."  
  
The words didn't sink in. I sat, my hands tangled in the sleeve of my jumper, staring at the back of his head, his messy black hair...  
  
"Go away. Stop trying to help me." His voice was choked, and even though he was turned away from me I could see the tenseness in the set of his shoulders.  
  
I couldn't stop my hand from reaching out and tentatively resting it on his upper back, near his left shoulder.  
  
He was facing me suddenly, on his knees, green eyes flashing in the firelight, messy hair accentuated with gold, his hands convulsing into fists.  
  
"Damnit, will you just leave me alone?! Can't you see I don't want your help, can't you see you can never mean anything to me?!"  
  
The words cut into me.  
  
I could feel a rising pain in my throat, in my chest, in my eyes.  
  
I broke his gaze, dropping my jumper as I scrambled to rise and ran out of the living room, a sob choking out of my mouth.  
  
There was so much blood pounding into my ears, so much pain in my chest.  
  
I almost didn't hear the sound of the door slamming.  
  
My legs didn't belong to me. They had a mind of their own, a mind that had not yet been paralysed with emotional hurt.  
  
I ran out the door, hearing it click shut behind me, across the garden, the Quidditch paddock, the orchard, my feet sure on the cool grass and earth, the air sticky and warm, the sky a dark blue.  
  
I stopped short as I broke through the final line of orchard trees, reaching out a hand to steady myself against the trunk of a tree, panting.  
  
He was there. What déja vu.  
  
His face was hidden in the shadow of my sycamore, sitting, leaning against the trunk, but his lower body, his arms, were apparent in the moonlight, his dark blue dressing gown, his white t-shirt underneath, his blue pajama bottoms.  
  
I stood there for a long time, my heart rate calming slowly, half hidden behind a tree, watching him.  
  
I saw his shoulders shake suddenly, shuddering, and amid the slight sound of rustling leaves in the otherwise still night, I could hear him crying.  
  
I moved towards him, my feet padding across the well-known roots, until I was sitting beside him on the low branch, reaching for him, touching his shaking shoulders, his clenched knuckles.  
  
I heard his breath catch, his sobs stop abruptly as he raised his head to look at me, his expression in the dim light one of surprise and fear.  
  
"Ginny," he whispered, choking, his eyes bright with a well of unshed tears. I felt my heart melt for this dark, tortured man.  
  
"Harry..."  
  
"Gin, please don't, you can't love..."  
  
He turned away, as if ashamed that he was crying, and I could see the tension in his neck as he tried to keep the sobs from escaping. I moved closer to him, circling my arms around his neck as I had in the afternoon, willing his emotional walls to come down.  
  
I laid my cheek tentatively across his shoulder, my eyes pressed close into his neck, his arms creeping slowly into place around my waist.  
  
I felt him shudder, shaking as he bit back sobs. A stray tear made its way out from behind my eyelids, spilling onto his neck.  
  
"Cry, Harry."  
  
He did.

::::

"Ginny," he said hoarsely. I had lost track of time, except in the movement of the moon across the navy blue sky.  
  
"Mhmm?" I said back, picking at the bark below my hands.  
  
"I'm sorry," he said, sounding sheepish.  
  
"I know."  
  
"I've been saying that a lot," he let out a dry chuckle.  
  
"It's okay," I took a deep breath, willing patience, willing for him to tell me.  
  
"I...it's just... I didn't mean to say what I did, I had to, I..."  
  
"What do you mean?"  
  
"He let out an almighty sigh. "D'you...d'you remember how I made you promise not to tell anyone about something?"  
  
I nodded, feeling the anticipation rise.  
  
"Dumbledore called me into his office after what happened..." he swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing "after what happened...in the Department of Mysteries. He said, that before I was born, a prophecy was made that a hero would be born on July 31st, and that he alone would have the power to vanquish the Dark Lord, that he has a power the Dark Lord knows not of, that..."  
  
He swallowed convulsively again, his hand clenching around mine, his gaze dropping to our intertwined fingers. I felt a blush rise into my face.  
  
"...the prophecy, Gin. It says that either I die or I kill Voldemort. Either he kills me or I kill him. One of us dies, Gin. Or both of us."  
  
The grip around my hand was painful now, but I could barely feel the lack of blood. Shock had frozen my veins, my mind.  
  
He abruptly let go, turning away.  
  
"I should go. I'll see you tomorrow."  
  
He dropped down from the low branch, landing in a slight crouch, before he straightened.  
  
"That's why you're telling me to stay away?" I asked, my voice shaking.  
  
"It's not your problem," he cut back, his voice bitter, his words childish.  
  
"That's a stupid reason, Harry, and you know it."  
  
"You don't understand, Ginny." His tone was angry now, annoyed, frustrated.  
  
"Then tell me. Then explain to me. I'm listening."  
  
"You won't understand."  
  
"Try me."  
  
"I don't deserve you, Gin. I don't deserve your family, I don't deserve this love. You don't need me to live. Go away, Gin."  
  
"No."  
  
"Then I will."  
  
He started walking away, his stride steady.  
  
I was in front of him in an instant, right before the first line of orchard trees. I could see the sycamore behind him, dark, majestic, a black silhouette against a blue velvet background.  
  
I looked at him for a moment, absorbing his annoyed expression, his simple white t-shirt, his half-closed eyes.  
  
"Stop running away, Harry," I said at last.  
  
"I'm not running," he protested, his hands shoved into his pockets, his stance uncaring and oddly...Malfoy-like. I shivered despite the warm night.  
  
I wanted to ask him what happened to him, but I held myself back, biting my lip, and stepped closer to him.  
  
"Stop it. Stop trying to hurt me, stop trying to push me away. It won't work, Harry," I said, my face inches from his. I felt anger boil up in my veins at his lack of understanding. "It's not going to stop me...us... from caring about you, from looking for you, from loving you."  
  
"Why can't you stop, Gin," he whispered, raking a hand through his hair. "Why can't you just give up on me...I'm a murderer, I could die, you could go with anyone else, Ginny, why me? Choose someone..."  
  
"Harry," I said softly, "I already chose, long ago. I chose you."  
  
I don't know what possessed me to say it. I don't know why I chose to speak the truth that I had buried inside for so long.  
  
He closed his eyes tightly, and I held my breath, steeling myself.  
  
When he finally opened his eyes, he had the same unfathomable expression etched on his features as I had seen that afternoon.  
  
"Can you, Ginny?," he said, his voice rough, harsh, "Can you possibly know that I will be a murderer and still choose me? Can you choose me even if you knew that I had nightmares every night, that I hate myself so much sometimes, that I..."  
  
I don't know how it happened, looking back now, but my fingers were pressed against his lips, and I could feel my pulse race erratically as his eyes darkened in intensity.  
  
His green eyes smoldered as I stepped closer, raising my face to meet his gaze.  
  
"I can. I will. Always."  
  
He took my hand gently around the wrist and removed it from his lips, his arms circling around my waist for the third time that day.  
  
I instinctively reached up around his neck, raising myself to meet him, feeling his pounding heart, knowing mine was racing just as fast.  
  
It was a clumsy kiss, our noses bumping together at first, but when he met his lips with mine, I felt the world falling into place, the missing pieces found, a sudden explosion of touch and light and Harry.

::::::

"Ginny! What on...."  
  
I looked at Hermione, who looked back at me, horrified.  
  
I blinked, groggily rubbing sleep from my eyes.  
  
I sat down, bewildered, until I saw the food on the table and realized it was lunch, not breakfast.  
  
"Oh."  
  
Fred and George were grinning like Cheshire cats, evidently amused at my lack of orientation, but if looks could kill, Fred and George would have been six feet under decades ago, the way Hermione was glaring.  
  
"Why didn't anyone wake me up?" I asked, taking a glass of pumpkin juice.  
  
Ron rolled his eyes at me, his mouth full of food. I wrinkled my nose at him.  
  
"See, ickle Ginnykins..." Fred said, snickering  
  
"...you were sleeping so soundly..."  
  
"...you wouldn't have heard a blast-ended skrewt at your door..."  
  
"...and so, in the manner of all proper older brothers..."  
  
"...very GOOD older brothers..."  
  
"...we took advantage of the situation."  
  
I looked at them, completely confused.  
  
"Come again?"  
  
"Oh, honestly!" Hermione exclaimed, glaring at Fred and George, who were still grinning widely.  
  
I raised my glass of juice to my lips, mystified, before realizing that I couldn't manoeuvre them to drink.  
  
"FRED! GEORGE!" I shrieked, my pumpkin juice spreading across the table. My hands flew up to my face.  
  
Ron doubled over in laughter, food spraying out of his mouth. Hermione looked disgusted.  
  
George grinned at me.  
  
"Oh come on, a little holiday cheer?"  
  
I snorted.  
  
"Oy!" Fred yelped, my well-aimed slice of toast clipping his ear.  
  
"Let's talk this over reasonably, Gin – there's no need to get shirty, I mean..." George protested.  
  
I scowled at him and ceremoniously dumped the pitcher of pumpkin juice over his head, and then over Fred, and dribbled the remnant onto Ron's neck.  
  
"GINNY WEASLEY!" Mum shouted, at the door. I wouldn't have eardrums by the time I hit forty at this rate. I smiled innocently and received a scowl in return.  
  
Fred and George ducked under the table, their chairs falling over. I gingerly placed the pitcher back onto the table.  
  
Ron sputtered, choking.  
  
"RON! FRED! GEORGE! How many TIMES have I..."  
  
I looked innocently at Mum, and fled up the stairs  
  
And bumped head on into Harry hurtling in the opposite direction.  
  
How cliché.  
  
"Bloody hell," Harry muttered, staring at me in horrid fascination.  
  
My jaw dropped.  
  
He suddenly raised his hands to his face, looking at me, realization dawning in his eyes.  
  
"Fred and George?" he asked. I didn't need to answer.  
  
"You didn't look at a mirror either this morning, did you," I asked.  
  
He shook his head.  
  
I sighed, and pulled him into my room.  
  
We burst out laughing.  
  
From the mirror behind the door, we saw two cat's heads where our heads would normally sit.  
  
"Not bad," Harry said, smiling.  
  
Harry had black fur, with green eyes, and I had my trademark red-ginger hair, with brown eyes. I grinned at him, cat like.  
  
"Can't say you don't look cute as a cat," I said, teasing.  
  
"Yeah, and my hair's about ten times less messy too," he chuckled. Even his smile, in cat form, had the unique Harry-ness in it that made my heart flip.  
  
"Naw," I drawled, "always liked your messy hair...dark as a blackboard, was it?"  
  
He turned to me, smiling, reaching his hand out for my face. My heart pounded, and I could feel myself leaning in, my body screaming touch me touch me touch me touch me  
  
He stopped halfway and dropped it to his side, his smile faltering.  
  
"Think it was," he muttered. He turned away from the mirror, facing the window.  
  
"Harry..."  
  
"So d'you know how long it's going to take to get this cat head off?"  
  
I bit back a sigh.  
  
"I think their charms usually last for an hour."  
  
"I see," he said.  
  
I would have bit my lip if I could. Instead, I clenched my hands tight at my sides.  
  
I ached to touch him.  
  
The silence stretched between us, the tension audible in the quiet of my room.  
  
He turned suddenly, and in two steps was out of my room.  
  
I sat down on the floor, trying hard not to cry.  
  
My heart hurt.

::::::

I loved watching Harry fly. I loved flying too.   
  
But it was bloody frustrating when he wouldn't talk to Ron and Hermione, and when Ron refused to talk to him.  
  
Ruddy male pride.   
  
It was completely ridiculous, trying to play Quidditch like that.  
  
With Fred and George gone and with them the mirth of pranks and jokes, it was just the three of them and me.  
  
Me sitting on my broom and watching, Ron trying to coax Hermione to move a meter higher on her broom, Harry doing reckless dives on one of Fred and George's new brooms. And me, watching, my heart thudding angrily.  
  
He could be so bloody stubborn sometimes.  
  
When Ron ended up tossing apples to himself and Harry ended up just looping around the field in a wide detour around Hermione and Ron, something in me snapped.  
  
It was all so stupid, the three of them.  
  
Damn Harry.  
  
I grabbed his arm as he flew past, and dragged him after me, barely hearing his exclamation of surprise. I didn't stop until we had landed at the border of the orchard and I had practically hoisted him through to my sycamore.  
  
I turned to him, the anger in me rising.  
  
He looked completely bored, his hands in his pockets, eyes hooded, his stance so not Harry.  
  
I slapped him.  
  
What a perfect slap.  
  
He staggered back, a hand touching his cheek, shocked.  
  
I grabbed his collar, standing so I was eye level to him, so close I could kiss him.  
  
"Apologize," I said venomously, "apologize to Ron and Hermione. To me."  
  
"And what," he said back, his eyes leering, "will you do if I don't?"  
  
There was an unappreciated advantage to having so many older brothers.  
  
I pushed him backwards, pinning him to the ground in a manoeuvre Bill had taught me years ago. I dug my knee into his thigh viciously.  
  
"What," I said, my voice low, "is wrong with you?"  
  
"Nothing," he said back, raising himself up on his elbows. "I told you, I warned you. This is me."  
  
My head whirled.  
  
"Well then go fix yourself," I snarled, "Go apologize."  
  
"What if I don't?"  
  
My breath caught. I wished I had planned this all before.  
  
I hated it. I hated these stupid circles we were running in.  
  
I let go of him, and he stood up, brushing the back of his t-shirt.  
  
I felt drained. And disgusted.  
  
"Why," I asked softly, barely registering that I was speaking aloud, "is it that talking with you now feels like talking with Malfoy?"  
  
He shrugged, his face turned away from me.  
  
I looked down at my sundress, the muddied hem, the slight grass stain showing on the light blue fabric, the tiny patch in the seam.  
  
"You..." my throat was closed, choking past the lump forming in it, the tears prickling. "Do you even like me, Harry? For being someone other than just some available girl?"  
  
He shrugged, turned, and strode steadily away.  
  
Blood pounded in my ears, behind my eyes, in my throat, my chest.  
  
I numbly turned and climbed up my sycamore, my tears spilling silently onto the rough bark, the revolting metallic taste of blood in my mouth.  
  
I felt numb.

::::

By the time it was past midnight, I was making my way down the staircase to the kitchen, in need of something sweet and thick.  
  
My heart stopped.  
  
Harry was already there, sitting at the window, looking strangely out of place in the kitchen chair.  
  
He was staring at me, the surprised expression on his face lit by the dim fire in the fireplace.  
  
He was not, I thought stubbornly, going to get between me and a cup of hot chocolate.  
  
I opened the cupboard, feeling his gaze on my back, feeling the blood rush to my neck, my face.  
  
He didn't move or speak as I poured milk into the cauldron sitting over the fireplace, and then the blocks of chocolate a few moments after.  
  
I ladled the hot chocolate into two mugs, and tried to keep my composure as I set a mug for him on the kitchen table, turning and placing a piece of Sudzeazy's Self Wash Scrubbing Soap into the cauldron, taking it off the fireplace and into the sink.  
  
I glanced at Harry, who was still sitting at the table, except he was looking at the mug of hot chocolate, seeming bewildered.  
  
"It's yours," I said, taking my own off the counter.  
  
I wanted to say more, say anything, but my throat closed up, the memories of the afternoon burning in my mind.  
  
I was at the bottom of the stairwell, swallowing my tears, when I heard his voice.  
  
"Gin," he said, his voice hoarse.  
  
I stopped, blinking, and turned around. He swallowed convulsively, hands tightening around the mug of hot chocolate.  
  
He looked terrified.  
  
"I'm so sor....I'm so....I'm..." He bit his lip, trying to force himself past the word.  
  
"Say it," I said.  
  
"I'm so sorry," he said at last. I nodded. He looked expectantly at me.  
  
As if I was going to go and talk to him.  
  
He must have sensed my want to leave.  
  
"Gin, please," he said, desperate. He was up suddenly, and in front of me, his hands on my shoulders. I was strangely calm.  
  
He searched my face, finally resting his gaze on my eyes. My heart flipped again at his darkening emerald eyes.  
  
"Help me," he whispered. "Please."  
  
"How do I help you, Harry, when you won't let yourself be helped?" My voice came out soft, steady.  
  
His grip tightened on my shoulders. I felt a bit of hot chocolate spill onto my hands.  
  
"I don't know," he said, his eyes tortured, "just stay with me, please. Please, Ginny. I don't know, but when you're beside me, when you touch me, I'm not afraid anymore, I'm not lost anymore, I don't want to torture and loathe myself anymore."  
  
I was speechless.  
  
"Please," he said, his voice low, begging. "forgive me."  
  
I moved out of his arms to the counter, setting down my mug.  
  
"Harry," I said, turning to him. He looked at me, the unfathomable expression on his face.  
  
I reached out then, and touched his bare arm, keeping my eyes on his, tracing his tense hand, his tense shoulders.  
  
"Harry," I said softly, "I chose you. I forgive you."  
  
Something collapsed in him, and he was suddenly sagging against me, his arms circling desperately around my waist, stooping so his face was buried in my neck.  
  
"Help me," he whispered. I shivered, feeling his breath, hot against my skin. My hands traced his shoulder blades, his back.  
  
I couldn't stop the question from bubbling to the surface.  
  
"Will you apologize?" I winced at the insensitivity of my question.  
  
He stood straight, looking away, his arms falling to his side.  
  
"I don't know what to say to them," he muttered.  
  
I felt a small smile tug at the corner of my mouth despite myself. He was so cute.  
  
"You'll know, Harry, when you're standing in front of them."  
  
"Gin," he said, the intensity of his gaze burning through me, "if I lose them...if I lose you..."  
  
"You won't," I said, tracing his arm, feeling the need to touch him course through me.  
  
"I don't want you to get hurt," he said, desperate. "I don't want anyone in your family to die because of me, because..."  
  
"No, you can't control that. You can't expect that you will save us all by distancing us. It's our choice, Harry. We'll die for you, because we love you."  
  
"Ginny," he said, his voice hoarse, "do you love me?"  
  
I looked at him, surprised.  
  
"Why..."  
  
"Do you?"  
  
"You know the answer..."  
  
"Please say it," he said, shy, his voice low and deep. "Please."  
  
I shivered under his burning gaze.  
  
"I love you."  
  
I heard his breath catch in his throat, felt him pull me towards him, crushing me flush against his form.  
  
"Gin," he said, against my lips, "no one has ever said that to me."  
  
"Then believe me," I whispered, my heart pounding unsteadily as his emerald eyes smouldered and his lips came tentatively to rest on mine.

:::::


End file.
